


Sin Miedo

by insomniacjams



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Kink Exploration, Light Bondage, M/M, Roleplay, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2015-04-16
Packaged: 2018-03-23 05:29:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3756190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniacjams/pseuds/insomniacjams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Captain sex, because this happened:<br/><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xscc0W2lbVI">Captain Fight</a></p>
<p>(Link to a Weber/Landeskog fight)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sin Miedo

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this a while back (incidentally on the day the fight linked above happened) and just kind of kept adding bits and pieces since then. It's taken me a while, and I know I haven't posted works in this fandom in a long time, so I hope you'll still have me.
> 
> I hope you like the pairing as much as I like seeing them both get their faces bashed in.  
> I also like the idea of them having kinky captain sex, so you know.

There's a man hiding somewhere in the beard that's pushing quarters into the weathered jukebox nestled in the darkest corner of the bar. Gabe doesn't think there's a better snapshot to describe this dump EJ dragged him into three hours ago – he's lost his friend already to a broad with long brunette hair that stands a little too close and talks a little too loud. Gabe thinks about a time, many years ago, he would've humoured her. Now, he sits alone, pushes away invites for company, and slams back another shot of tequila like it's a good idea. He swallows like he isn't thinking about his last life, and running away from his bad decisions by packing his bags and flying across the globe.

And staying.

Colorado isn't bad, but it isn't Sweden, and he knows this. "Another please," he smiles at the bartender, and it's nice to receive reassurance that nearly 8000 kilometres away from home, his charm hasn't faded in the slightest. 

Like everyone else in the bar, the bartender has a beard too. It's a nice beard, subjectively speaking – Gabe wishes he could grow a respectable beard, and to that thought, he tugs at his unruly hair (it looks like he hasn't combed it in days) and throws back another shot. He looks across the bar, and EJ's leading the woman he met to the toilets. Gabe thinks it's time to make his leave. 

"Another?" The bartender asks as Gabe moves to stand, and Gabe shakes his head.

"Heading out."

"Going home?" The bartender asks, and Gabe shrugs.

"I don't live here," he says, even if he has a house and a car and a potted plant in Denver. Somewhere in his drunken mind, he still thinks he lives in Sweden. He wishes he never left. 

"Have another," The bartender says.

"I'm out of cash," Gabe replies.

"It's on the house." Gabe slowly lifts his leg back onto the bar stool. 

"If you insist."

He tells Gabe that his name is Shea, even though the other girl at the bar keeps calling him Webs. Gabe doesn't think Webs sounds like a real name, but he doesn't think Shea sounds like one either – it sounds soft like shea butter, or warm like a pile of kittens resting on Gabe's legs. This guy behind the bar is a lot of things; he's rugged and handsome and grips the glasses just shy of too hard – but he isn't soft or warm or a pile of kittens. Gabe thinks it looks better on him. Gabe thinks the beard looks better on him too.

Shea's actually quite friendly despite the gruff exterior; as he feeds Gabe beers ("No more tequila for you"), he talks absentmindedly about growing up in the middle of nowhere, Canada, and doesn't even bat an eyelash when Gabe snorts as he tells him the name of the town is Sicamous (that's pronounced Sick-Ah-Moose) and has a population less than 2500. His knuckles are scarred, Gabe notices, as his hands move fluidly behind the bar. In fact, Gabe watches his hands, watches his lips move behind his beard, watches Shea slide back and forth with the grace of a swan locked in a misshapen cage. He wonders where he went wrong – where Shea went wrong. 

"I used to play pond hockey in this rink my neighbours had in their backyard," Shea says as he pours another beer for Gabe. Gabe thinks he's drank through nearly his entire day's paycheck since Shea's started throwing alcohol his way, but he doesn't stop, taking the beer with an unsteady hand, watching as some of the amber liquid sloshes over the rim and onto the bar. "They said I would've been good," he says, and Gabe thinks there's more of a story than that, but Shea doesn't say more so Gabe doesn't ask.

"I never had a backyard rink," he volunteers. "Everyone thinks Sweden's some exotic world where everyone plays hockey and has skates or something, but I went to the local rink like all the other kids and they skated circles around me. I had to work for it, and even then, I don't think anyone ever thought I was good enough, so I stopped," Gabe slurs. 

"I bet you were good enough," Shea says vehemently, and Gabe's so drunk he almost believes him.

"We're closing up, Webs," the girl behind the bar bumps into Shea's hip and Gabe's surprised she's still standing, because Shea's built a bit like a tree and people don't just casually hip check trees and remain standing, or, at least, Gabe doesn't, he thinks. Then again, he thinks he's never hip checked a tree, but he wouldn't like to try. "Get this one home safe," she leers, and that's when Gabe looks around to realize the bar is empty except for him and his lonely, empty pint glass.

He gets up and sways a bit on his feet, but for all he's drank tonight, he's fairly steady as he walks a jagged line toward the door. "Hey now," Shea says, and then there's a warm hand, a big hand covering the small of his back, and a broad body pushing him through the doors and securing them shut behind them. "I hope you're not driving," Shea says, and his voice sounds rough, like he's been chain smoking cigarettes and yelling across the bar all night (he's been doing the latter, but Gabe can't catch the scent of smoke so he thinks Shea's probably better than that).

"My friend drove me," Gabe says, thinking about EJ and his arms wrapped around the brunette. Gabe wishes someone would hold him the way EJ holds his women sometimes, but he doesn't say it. Instead, he says, "I'll walk back."

"At least get a cab," Shea says, and Gabe turns his empty pockets inside out, laughing.

"Spent all my cash at the bar," he says, because leaving his house with only cash is a great way to keep a cap on his spending, and an awful thing to do if he wants to get a cab. Shea lets out an audible sigh, and he steps away from Gabe at last – Gabe doesn't notice the scent of his aftershave until its leaving, following Shea in a wispy trail across the parking lot.

"Well?" Shea looks at him with a raised eyebrow. They're nice eyebrows, Gabe thinks a bit hysterically. 

"Well what?" Gabe asks.

"Are you coming?" 

"Huh?"

"I'm driving you home," Shea says, and Gabe should be a bit embarrassed about the way he stumbles and trips over his own feet in his haste to cross the parking lot to catch up with Shea. 

"Where do you live, Pretty Boy?" Shea asks as Gabe fumbles with his seat belt and tries to remain seated upright. Shea drives a BMW which is kind of weird since he works in a dive bar, but Gabe's figured out by now that Shea's pretty weird, period.

Gabe thinks about his empty house; he thinks about his big fireplace and his bed with the crinkled flannel sheets and his potted plant that he always forgets to water but still perseveres in the rough Colorado winters. "Over there," he says vaguely, because he's drunk, and he can't remember where this empty house is when all the streets look the same. His own house is a carbon copy of his neighbours' houses, right down to the crown molding and hardwood flooring.

He doesn't even realize Shea's driving until the trees are flying by his window and he's blinking, trying to focus his eyes on his surroundings. "Where are we goin'?" Gabe asks.

"My house," Shea says.

"Why?"

"Well, I know where that is," Shea says mockingly, and Gabe knows a dig when he hears one, so he shuts up and lets the road blur together, enjoying the soft purr of the car until he feels it pull to a complete stop. 

"Where are we?" Gabe asks, twisting around and squinting into the dark.

"My driveway," Shea says flatly, stepping out of his car. After what appears a bit of mental deliberation, he walks around to the other side, opens the passenger side door, and helps Gabe out of the car and up the front steps to the house. Gabe doesn't mean to fall – he doesn't – but his foot catches an edge and he goes tumbling, and he would be tumbling to the ground, except he's tumbling into Shea's chest and a pair of solid arms snake their way around his middle. Shea hums, a deep toneless sound that reverberates through his chest. 

"Look at you," he murmurs. "Can't even stand by yourself," he grins wolfishly as he props Gabe upright in the entryway while he unlocks the door. "What should I do with you?" Shea asks, clicking his tongue softly as he pushes Gabe across the threshold. 

Gabe expects to be dumped on the couch with a bucket by his head; he's done this before, drunkenly stumbling back to EJ's place while he's busy dragging some girl to his room, and he sleeps on the worn leather couch and pretends he can't hear the moaning over his headache or the door opening and closing at 3 am. 

But Shea doesn't do that. 

Gabe gets dragged up a flight of stairs and dumped into a king sized bed with golden sheets that are far too soft to be a guest room. He closes a hand around a fistful of comforter and sighs, feeling his eyes slowly drift shut on their own accord. Shea disappears, and reappears a moment later with a tall glass of water. Gabe squints, and even considers pouting, but Shea's already leaning over to help him sit up, petting the nape of his neck with a warm and steady hand. "C'mon babe, you're going to drink this, and then you're going to sleep, okay?" 

"Okay," Gabe hums in agreement, because it's easier to agree, and Shea is a warm and solid presence above him keeping him safe and secured to this bed. Gabe thinks this may be the most comfortable bed he's ever sat his ass on in his life. 

*

Gabe's not sure why he wakes up. The room is dark, and silent except for a dull hum in the background he thinks may be from the refrigerator downstairs. He groans, and tries to roll over, but he can't. His wrists and ankles are strapped tightly to the head and footboard. He tries to twist free, but he can't see – realizes he's blindfolded – and sighs. 

"Shea?" He tries. His tongue is thick and heavy in his mouth like he's been chewing on cotton balls. He thinks he drank too much, but the hangover isn't there – his head is clear, but his vision is dark and his palms are sweaty and his forehead is too, he thinks. He feels adrenaline spike through his veins. He wonders if this is what it's like to be afraid.

"Are you kidnapping me, Shea?" He asks, but there's no response. He knows Shea's in the room – he can't explain how, but he can sense the presence of another body hovering nearby. Almost as if on cue, he hears the feather-light footsteps shuffling across the rug. 

"Gabriel Landeskog," Shea says. His voice is warm and sultry like he's trying for seduction. Gabe thinks it might be working. He also thinks it might work better if he can see that stupid face the voice is coming from. He clamps his mouth shut and doesn't say so. Instead, he waits. "22 years old, born in Stockholm, Sweden on November 23, 1992. Twin sister, Beatrice, mother Cecelia, and father Tony."

Gabe startles as a hand suddenly touches his face. The hand is warm and the fingers are calloused, but it isn't an altogether unpleasant sensation. "I don't have your credit card number since it wasn't in your wallet," Shea murmurs, "but I have enough information that I can open one. In fact, your address is-"

"Stop," Gabe blurts, and the hand that was caressing his cheek disappears. The bed sinks and Gabe imagines Shea sitting carelessly on his left, waiting patiently for him to continue. "Whatever you're doing," Gabe says, trying not to let his voice shake, "Please stop." His tongue trembles on his teeth like it's calling him a liar. Confidence isn't hard to find for Gabe most days, most nights, but here he shakes like he's trying to fidget his way out of his own skin.

The sheets that felt so soft the night before are becoming rough and uncomfortable under the pads of his fingers; he can feel the air hanging thick in the room like the door is closed and the windows haven't been opened in a long time. He can feel something pressing warm and heavy against his side, and oh, that's Shea. 

He's radiating heat, like he's burning up next to Gabe – Gabe wonders if the bed's on fire, or if that's just Shea. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he thinks the heat suits him, like he'd expect Shea to be warm to the touch. He thinks about the bar, about throwing back one too many shots while Shea watches him, and he thinks that oddly inquisitive stare suits the gruff exterior too. 

He thinks Shea's watching him right now, and the thought makes him swallow hard, and clutch harder at the sheets like they'll clutch him right back (they don't). "Do you want the radio on?" Shea asks, and Gabe startles, because, what?

"I… what?" He asks, and he can imagine Shea rolling his eyes, raising one of those eyebrows in his general direction. "Yes," Gabe says finally, because he's horrified that if there's no background music the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears will be too obvious. He thinks about bear safety – he thinks about his mama telling him when he was young that he should never let them know he's afraid. He wonders if Shea knows he's afraid. He wonders if Shea is half bear. 

There's something warm building up inside of him as the weight lifts off the bed and the sound of shuffling footsteps leads to Luke Bryan crooning from a fuzzy radio in the corner. Gabe can't remember seeing a radio in the room, and his imagination fills in the blanks with a jukebox not much unlike the one at the bar. He imagines Shea standing at its face, fiddling with the knobs and trying to find the right station, and though he can't see his own face, he can feel the flush that washes over him as he imagines Shea's fingers wrapped around the knob of a radio, long and strong like tree branches. 

He's wondering what those fingers would feel like around him, clutching at every piece of his body – thick and heavy around his biceps, tight and study around his wrists, splayed hard on his thighs, pushing his legs apart, or wrapped around his throat like his life-

"Gabe," Shea says, and Gabe startles. "Look at me," Shea says, and Gabe sputters, anxious.

"I don't know where you are," he grumbles.

"I'm over here," Shea tells him, and his voice flushes the warmth from the room like a cool ocean breeze. "Just listen to my voice, babe." Gabe takes a deep breath, and listens. Something tells him this is wrong – something reminds him he's being held against his will and he's uselessly tied to a fucking bedframe that won't shake no matter how hard he pulls, and Gabe, he's not weak. He's not. Or maybe he's become weak. Maybe he's weak minded, or weak willed. He doesn't know anymore. Shea's talking, but he's also really bad at listening. 

"Gabriel," Shea says his name again, and this time, it's punctuated by a sharp and sudden smack to his cheek. It isn't a hard smack by any means, but it stings, and Gabe can imagine the red handprint blossoming as he sputters out an apology. 

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry-" he doesn't even know what he's apologizing for, so he stops, since Shea's the one who hit him, the one who brought him here and held him here and tied him down until his wrists went numb. "What do you even want from me?" He asks, and he's ashamed of the way his voice cracks halfway through the sentence, and sweat beads at his brow like he's sweating out his nerves (he doesn't sweat when he's nervous, but Shea's just so warm, an everlasting heat burrowed into his skin as he sits next to Gabe on the bed). 

"I want you," Shea says, and Gabe cringes like he's expecting more, like he's expecting Shea to pounce – but nothing happens. Instead, Shea shifts a bit, and slowly reaches up, mussing with Gabe's hair. A moment later, Gabe realizes he's loosening the blindfold. When it finally falls, he blinks and adjusts to the dark room. Shea's nothing but a blurry outline as his eyes wobble into focus, moving swiftly from Gabe's side to the radio to again fiddle with the station. It's not an old radio with knobs like Gabe's imagination pictured, but instead a sleek and modern stereo with buttons that press down soundlessly with the pads of Shea's index finger. 

He looks to his left, then his right, confirming that there are tight bindings securing him into the position he is, eagle spread on Shea's sheets like a prisoner, his bare skin on display, and- "When did I get naked?" He blurts, and Shea, bless him, just laughs, the sound filling the room like a cloud of misplaced cheer. 

"You wanted to, last night," Shea says, and Gabe frowns, raking his memories like he's looking for a piece that doesn't exist. He thinks it must've been somewhere in the missing areas, when time skips and he wakes up tied to Shea's bed. He sighs. 

"Oh."

"You don't sound surprised," Shea hums as he reaches forward. Gabe can see him now, and he tenses, but Shea just runs a big, callused hand down his chest stopping to casually tweak his nipples along the way. 

"I don't like clothes," Gabe says defiantly, and Shea laughs.

"I noticed."

"You're not a very good bartender," Gabe says, because he has awful self-control and has yet to figure out that he probably shouldn't insult the guy who tied him to the bed. 

"I'm not a bartender," Shea says, raising his eyebrow.

"You were tending the bar last night," Gabe says stupidly, and Shea laughs again. Gabe feels an awful lot like he's being laughed at, but he doesn't say anything, chewing his bottom lip instinctively.

"I was doing a favour for a friend," Shea says, and then smirks. "He repaid the favour by allowing me to slip you those drinks." 

"You probably shouldn't do any more favours for friends," Gabe grumbles, tugging at the restraints again. Shea reaches up, closing a hand around Gabe's wrist. He stills and swallows, watching the way the fingers wind around them, the dark a harsh contrast to Gabe's pale skin.

"I should've gagged you instead," Shea sighs, but he doesn't make any move to stuff anything in Gabe's mouth. Instead, he swings his leg over Gabe's abdomen so he's straddling Gabe's middle. Shea's wearing sweatpants, and it's not very bright in the room, but Gabe doesn't feel like he's a genius or anything when he deduces that Shea is not wearing underwear. He audibly swallows, watching the outline of Shea's half-hard cock swing to the side. Shea settles on Gabe's middle, eliciting a low-pitched groan. 

"C'mon," Gabe says, and Shea widens his eyes with mock innocence, like he has no idea what he's doing to Gabe.

"C'mon what, babe?"

"C'mon, do something," Gabe says, pointedly puffing his chest out best he can, just to remind Shea that one of his hands, the one that isn't clutching Gabe's wrist, is still resting on Gabe's pectorals like he owns them (let's be honest, at this point, he does).

"I am doing something," Shea chuckles, flicking at Gabe's nipple as he lets go of the wrist, using the hand to prop himself up above Gabe's body, lowering himself until his nose is millimetres from Gabe's. 

"What are you doing then?" Gabe snaps, at Shea chuckles, leaning down. 

"Kissing you." Gabe can feel Shea's breath fanning across his cheek. He smells warm and musky, not particularly clean, but something distinctly Shea with a hint of leftover cologne, and Gabe he just-

"No you're not," Gabe spits, and then Shea's crashing his lips down on Gabe's aggressively, like if he didn't at that very second the world would end. Gabe kisses him back by instinct, responding throatily to the gentle nips at his bottom lip before he gasps and pulls away best he can with his limited movement, sputtering.

"Well, I was," Shea sighs, shifting a bit on the bed. Gabe frowns. He wonders what would happen if he asked Shea to untie him. He seems like a nice guy – doesn't seem like he'll object. Gabe opens his mouth to ask, but then Shea leans in again, and the beard scratches his cheek roughly (Gabe only wishes he could grow a beard like that) and they're kissing again, Shea's body blanketing Gabe's in a bubble of warmth that he never wants to leave. Between rough kisses and their jousting tongues, Gabe forgets about asking for freedom.

Actually, Gabe forgets he's tied altogether, and reaches forward to grab Shea's head, to pull him closer, and grunts when his movement meets resistance. He thinks about asking Shea to untie him again, but that thought goes out the window as she slowly runs his hands down Gabe's bare chest, following them slowly with a dull scrape of his beard, until his nose is buried into Gabe's hipbones, and his big hands are clutching tightly at Gabe's thighs, pushing them even farther apart if possible. 

"Wait, stop," Gabe says, and Shea actually does stop, looking up inquisitively. Gabe groans. "No, wait, don't stop – just, stop, uh-"

"What do you want, babe? Use your words," Shea murmurs into Gabe's hips, and he groans, feeling the heat as one of Shea's hands slides smoothly up his thigh and around his backside. 

"You," Gabe grunts out begrudgingly, and Shea laughs loudly, filling the room with a throaty, boisterous sound. 

"I was waiting for you to say that," Shea says, and then lips are pressing against Gabe's belly, tracing their way downwards with a hint of teeth and tongue. Gabe feels his hips jerk up involuntarily; he's half hard already, watching Shea's dark hair and chiselled features dancing on his skin.

"Fuck, I want to touch you," Gabe whimpers; he jerks his hands again like he's trying to pull free from the restraints, but he meets resistance yet again. "Goddamn, just fucking untie me already," Gabe sputters before he even realizes he's said it, looking up at Shea with wide doe eyes.

"Don't," Shea groans. "Don't look at me like that," he says, and Shea probably isn't as sunshine and puppies as Gabe had believed, because he's nipping at Gabe's hipbones again instead of untying him. Gabe jerks his hips up, figures if he twists enough, he can at least nudge Shea in the cheek with his dick and get him where he wants. If Gabe is being held captive with some guy's mouth near his cock, he's going to want to take advantage of it. 

Shea's teeth scrape against Gabe's hipbone; they feel unnaturally sharp, like he's part canine. Gabe finds himself wondering if bears have sharp teeth as Shea starts to nip at his hip, leaving a dull bruise just low enough to hide under the waistband of his jeans.

Once Gabe's been deemed sufficiently claimed, Shea does eventually get his lips around Gabe's dick. He takes the long way around of course, kissing and sucking his way across Gabe's skin until Gabe doesn't think there's a single patch of pale peach that's left untouched. Shea's nose is warm and huffs air against Gabe's thigh for a second, and then he's pressing gentle kisses to Gabe's balls, reaching up to give Gabe's cock a few gentle strokes before opening his mouth.

The sound Gabe makes is nearly inhuman; it's a strangle gasp that tumbles out from the back of his throat, his tongue curling into words that are half Swedish, half English Gabeisms that tangle into his mouth as he bites down, trying to keep silent.

"Shea-" he gasps aloud, cutting himself off as he instinctively tugs on the restraints and tries to reach forward. He wants to wrench his way from the straps that bind him to the bed and grab fistfuls of Shea's hair to pull him exactly where he wants, but Gabe knows, the more he tugs, that it isn't likely to happen.

As Gabe contemplates the horrors of being strapped to a bed in a way that prevents him from touching the man who's making steady work of his swollen cock, Shea does something deadly with his tongue that makes Gabe squeak out a string of Swedish curse words toward the ceiling.

He wrenches his neck to look down at Shea, just as Shea takes a deep breath, and Gabe's dick hits the back of his throat – oh.

Gabe's breath hitches – he might stop breathing altogether, he thinks, if Shea doesn't do something soon. Then Shea is doing that thing with his tongue again, and Gabe is grappling at nothing, trying to remember which way is up as he comes violently down Shea's throat.

When Gabe stops seeing stars, Shea's just hovering over him with his ridiculous bulging arm muscles all up in Gabe's business, and a bit of cum staining the edge of his beard. Gabe struggles up, like he wants to lick it off, and realizes again that he can't due to the restraints.

And Shea, Shea's looking at him like a predator looks at its prey – like he could eat Gabe alive, and leave nothing but bones behind. Gabe gulps. Shea _roars_ , and then he's leaning forward, catching Gabe in a biting kiss with more teeth and tongue than lips, and Gabe, well, he thinks that's oddly ok.

He almost forgets he's tied to the bed, but as he tries to lift his wrists up to grab at Shea again, he grunts into the kiss as he finds the restraints are just as tight as they were before. "Yeah, that's right," Shea grins at him, all sharp teeth as he rubs Gabe's wrists. "Now, let's get you opened up."

And Gabe, he's staring, watching as Shea slips off the bed, his shadow walking across the dark room to yank open a drawer and pull out an assortment of things. There are the usual suspects, the condoms and lube that lands right next to Gabe's hip, but there are some other things too. Gabe spies a cock ring, a mid-sized dildo, and… handcuffs? 

"You've been so good for me," Shea purrs as he crawls back onto the bed, and Gabe gulps, because he has, hasn't he? "Maybe for that, I could just-" Shea stops talking, running a hand down Gabe's bare thigh until he hits the cuff around Gabe's ankle. "I could just untie you, eh?"

"You could," Gabe says, and then bites his tongue, because he's a fucking idiot. "Please." Apparently he's still an idiot.

"Ok," Shea agrees, and that throws Gabe off, because what? "You won't leave anyway," Shea grins, wide and predatory like Gabe is starting to learn he always does. Gabe gulps, and nods, even though it wasn't a question. Shea nods as well, and then he's untying the cuffs that are holding Gabe's legs down and spread. 

He works his way between them as the cuffs are removed so that instead of being splayed open on the bed by restraints, Gabe's legs are being pressed open and exposed by Shea, who for some reason, is _still wearing his pants_.

"What about these?" Gabe asks daringly as he tugs at the constraints on his wrists as well. Shea shrugs, as if to say "whatever" before he reaches up and undoes those as well. However, he predictably twists Gabe's wrists behind his back, cuffing them in place. 

He gives Gabe a quick pinch to the side as demands, "Turn over." Gabe rolls. "On your knees." Gabe complies. Shea gets a hold of his neck, pushing him forward into the pillows so that his ass is in the air (Gabe goes down easy), and oh- that's the snap of the lube cap, and then there are fingers.

There are fingers, two of them, one of them circling the edge of his hole as the other one gently scratches at the skin around it. "Shea, come on," Gabe whines, pushing his ass up against Shea's fingers as best he can, his soft whimpers muffled by the pillow in his face.

Slowly but surely, Shea works Gabe open with practiced hands, crooking his first finger just right to get Gabe squirming underneath him before inserting the second, then the third. They're silent with the sound of lube and Gabe's soft panting between them. "Please," Gabe finds himself begging all too soon, his hips canting toward Shea on their own accord, dick searching for friction as Shea's strong hand keeps his ass in the air.

"Yeah okay," Shea says, and Gabe squishes his eyes shut, his whole face scrunching as he hears the tear of the condom packet, and the slick sound of lube again, and then – that's the dildo, pressing it's way inside Gabe.

It's not enough.

It's not enough in so many ways, and Gabe wants to bite out how much Shea's a tease, but he doesn't think he's in a position to speak up. He does anyway. "What the fuck," he groans, gasping as Shea leisurely fucks him with the dildo. "What the fuck," he grits out, "Are you doing."

"Fucking you," Shea responds even if Gabe hadn't phrased it as a question (he knows quite well what Shea is doing, he does it to himself sometimes, works himself to the edge of desperation, and rushes into the best orgasms of his life).

"No you're not," Gabe argues, even as he pushes back onto the dildo. "You're not – you should – Shea," He gasps, as Shea rips the dildo out of Gabe suddenly, throwing it aside, leaving Gabe feeling piteously empty.

"Fine," Shea says, and he says it like sticking his dick in Gabe's ass is some sort of chore. He snatches the second condom from the sheets, and as Gabe huffs against the pillows, Shea sheaths himself and lubes up, lining up against Gabe's hole.

Gabe's open, stretched and pink, and he should feel vulnerable, but he's shaking, wanting, panting, begging – he needs, he needs so much, and it's all not enough as Shea gives his rim a gentle tug before finally, slowly pressing in.

As he bottoms out, Shea pulls his body forward, draping himself over Gabe like a warm blanket, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his shoulders and neck area. Gabe grunts. "Just fucking move," he says, and weirdly enough, Shea does.

For all the kisses and gentle touches and quirked eyebrows, Shea really does fuck Gabe in earnest, fuck him like how Gabe would think Shea would fuck him upon their first meeting. He pounds Gabe into the mattress with vigor and strength that Gabe envies, his large body covering all of Gabe's, his lips and teeth and tongue work together with his hips to diminish Gabe to a squirming, wriggling mess of uncoordinated limbs and gasping breaths.

Gabe trembles and groans and shakes like he wants out of his own skin as he comes untouched, for the second time, his dick untouched and twitching. "Shea," Gabe gasps out, and that's all he can say, babbling Shea's name over and over again as Shea tenses behind him, and comes with a noise that's probably only made by bears (and Shea). 

Gabe collapses on the mattress, as slowly, very slowly, Shea heaves his body off Gabe's and untangles his wrists from the handcuffs. Gabe's callused fingers smooth over the soft skin for a second before he disappears into the bathroom and reappears with a wet washcloth to clean up the mess Gabe's made.

He barely stays awake long enough to roll out of the wet spot before he's asleep.

*

Afterward, Gabe rubs his wrists and groans, rolling onto his stomach. "You asked for it," Shea says, carelessly flopping over on the bed, landing half on top of Gabe. 

"You're not very good at it," Gabe pouts, and Shea raises an eyebrow.

"Well, what did you expect, a fucking Hollywood actor?" 

"Fair enough," Gabe sighs. "You made an alright bartender."

"You mean I poured an alright beer," Shea snorts.

"Not enough foam," Gabe winks, and leans in to kiss him. "Thanks for, you know, not giving in and untying me-"

"I wasn't going to," Shea grumbles, but Gabe smirks, leaning against his boyfriend with a contented sigh.

"C'mon, I know you better than that," Gabe chuckles, and Shea groans, leaning over to push his face into Gabe's mussed up hair.

"Yeah, you do," he hums. "You're the only one that does."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. You guys rock. It's playoff season, so let's go Blackhawks.
> 
> (I missed you, hockey fandom)


End file.
